Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

I steal a glance toward Mr. Tate, sitting at the front desk grading papers. I have no idea how this is even possible. How this angry chick managed to access the book in the forty-eight hour window it was gone, but I don’t give a rat’s ass. I’m just glad to have something to do other than copying poetry for the next ten minutes.

I unfold the letter carefully and start reading.

Dear Grammar Police,

I hope you get hit by a car.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want you to die. You see, unlike you, I am a GOOD person. And a good person doesn’t go around bullying people for no reason.

But I still wish you’d get hit by a car.

Maybe break a rib or two.

Or twenty-four.

Maybe you could use your time of remission to ask yourself why you’re such an asshole. Think real hard about what could’ve made you this way. Tough childhood? Absent parents?

What was it, troll?

I’d love to know.

I know you’ll probably never read this, but in case it wasn’t clear enough, I didn’t need your corrections or nasty input on my letter which, by the way, was supposed to stay PRIVATE.

And for the record, YOU DON’T KNOW ME. I am the furthest thing from a crybaby. Or an “angry chick.” Actually, how can you be so sure that I’m a girl at all?

I could be a seven-foot-tall dude with a mean right hook for all you know. So, here’s an idea, asshole. Let’s play a game of fuck off.

You go first.

- L

I should be offended, shocked by the mouth on this girl, but all I can do, as I devour the letter for the third time, is smile until my cheeks sting.

Angry chick has a temper.

Score.

I have to remind myself to wipe that dopey smirk off my face not to draw suspicion from the detention warden. I can barely believe it, but I’m pretty damn entertained right now—maybe even weirdly aroused?

So, I grab a pen, flip the letter over…

And get to work.

* * *

Aveena

The book was borrowed again on Tuesday. What’s even crazier? It was by Mr. Tate.

Again.

He checked out the same ten books, too, which is odd, but I couldn’t be bothered to think twice about it. Maybe he just really likes boring books? But then again, he doesn’t seem to be reading them or he’d have found my letters by now.

That’s probably borderline unrealistic on my part, but the only thing plaguing my mind when I found out the book was MIA was… Will I get an answer again?

Then I mocked myself.

Dream on, Vee.